


No More Let Death Divide

by eternaleponine



Series: Penny Dreadful Happily Ever After AU [3]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another installment in the We'll Never Get This On The Show But This Is How It Really Happens series, started in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1862142">Opium Dreams by VelveteenThestral</a>, followed by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1945056">Beggar at the Feast</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1945104">Are We Human</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Let Death Divide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VelveteenThestral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelveteenThestral/gifts).



_No more let Life divide what Death can join together._

The line had haunted him once, and it haunted him again, but for an entirely different reason now. 

Before it had been life he'd sought to restore, life following death, the restoration that which had ceased. Death had been a gateway to life again, and eternal. Now it was life that he sought to preserve, death he sought to prevent, a natural preoccupation for a doctor, but on a much grander scale.

He couldn't afford to fail.

He'd failed once in his original endeavor, even as he'd succeeded, and that failure had led to the destruction of his second creation, the first he'd counted as a success. 

And that creature, that abomination that he'd created and abandoned, terrified and horrified both at what he had wrought, had demanded of him the creation of another. "This you will do," he'd said, "or I will strike down all those you love, and render your brightest day your darkest night."

Victor had responded, "You seek to threaten me with death. If you seek to threaten me, threaten me with life."

What had he loved then? Who? It had been before... before everything. 

So the creature had gone after a man who had had the misfortune to call Frankenstein friend, bringing and abrupt and needless end to his life, a child's temper tantrum writ large and bloody. But friendship wasn't love. Not of the sort he'd come to expect from a childhood diet of Shakespeare and poetry. His relationship with Van Helsing had been acquaintance, perhaps a hint of affection, at best, and though he'd mourned, it had not swayed him, not entirely. 

If the creature had been bluffing when he'd asked Victor to kill him, when he'd said it would be a mercy, if it had all been a ploy for pity, Victor had called it. He'd ended both of their torment, and thought that would be the end of it.

But then he _had_ created another, and Victor counted it his greatest success. Brona had gone into death and the hope of life eternal willingly, with full knowledge of what was going to happen and what she was going to become. Perhaps that had made the difference, or perhaps he'd perfected the mechanism, or perhaps it was that he had brought her back and then stepped aside, putting her in the care of a set of far more loving and capable hands, and leaving himself as alone... more alone... than ever, until the invitation came that brought him to the doorstep of Mister Dorian Gray, not just for a night but to stay.

Days had passed. Weeks had turned into months, and seeking refuge from nightmares in the other man's arms had become a habit. One kiss turned to several turned to many, and by the time Victor had realized he was falling in love it was far, far too late, and his only consolation was that it was everything the poets had promised. 

Yet it hadn't been – wasn't – enough. 

He had tried to explain it to Dorian, but the words came out all wrong. He had said he felt like he didn't fit, like everyone had their place in the household and in the world. He had said he felt like he had nothing, even though he did not want for anything.

"I've conquered death," he'd said. The proof was there in front of them, and if there were a few memory and motor deficits that remained, what of it? It didn't seem to bother Brona much, and Ethan not at all. He'd given them the chance that they would never have had if nature had taken its course.

What was left to do?

"And that leaves you with nothing?" Dorian had asked. It was to his credit that he hadn't sounded insulted; he had had every right to, with all he'd given Victor, both tangible and not, which was in Victor's estimation more than he deserved.

"It leaves me feeling empty and directionless," Victor had said, and that was more accurate.

"In that case, may I make a suggestion for your next project, as you've solved this one?" 

"If you like."

"Immortality." Victor had looked at Dorian, and it was clear from the look on his face, the wide-eyed innocence of it, that he meant it. "Not to bring people back from beyond death, but to keep them from ever crossing that divide."

He had had no answer. He hadn't even been sure, not really, what Dorian was suggesting. 

By that point Victor knew, because he'd asked, that although Dorian looked to be his own age, he'd seen the century turn once already. So when he had asked for Victor turn his inquiries to the possibility of extending life indefinitely, he had to think of every possible scenario that might have led to the suggestion, lest he embarrass himself by jumping to conclusions. It could have been that whatever kept him from aging was failing, and he needed Victor to find another way for him. Perhaps he was asking for Ethan and Vanessa, whose lovers were undying but whose own status in that regard was as yet unknown, although they had a better than even chance that they would not age as a normal person would, if at all.

The last, and least likely, or so it seemed it ought to be, was that wanted Dorian was asking him to do it for himself, so that Victor would not age, would not grow old and wither and die. There was a chance, however small, that he was asking Victor for the chance not just for years, but decades, centuries, together.

It was that possibility that Victor most hoped for, and most feared. He was a doctor, not an alchemist, and there was no Elixir of Life. 

Not unless he could create it.

He had not answered Dorian right away. He hadn't even answered that night, or the next. Instead he'd buried himself in stacks of books, some that he remembered from his youth, before death had touched him and turned his thoughts dark. The alchemists in the texts had seemed to him to be part scientist, part magician, and it had caught his imagination and never entirely let go. He had procured a few supplies, begun to mix this and that to see where it got him, and dared to let himself dream, just a little, of the possibility of success.

"I can't promise you forever," he'd whispered to Dorian one night, when he knew that his lover was still awake but only just barely, "but I'll try." A kiss placed soft against the nape of his neck told him his words had been heard.

From there it had been trial and error (more of the latter than the former), and mistakes and setbacks, near-disasters and complete failures, and only just enough success to keep him going, keep him thinking that perhaps this time, or if not then the next, or perhaps the time after that, _maybe_ it would work.

After the first one, he had asked that they not commemorate his birthday. There was no cause for celebration, in his estimation. It meant he was another year closer to death, and before that middle and old age, and what would he do when he looked in the mirror and found himself looking old enough to be Dorian's father? Would he still stay on? Would he still be welcome? A birthday marked another year in which he had failed to find a solution, and he couldn't stomach it.

In his twenty-sixth year, he'd finally started to have some success. All along his various experiments had been hard to test, even on rats, because their natural life span was still several years and how could he be sure that it was working? But now... now he thought he had something. He was nearly sure of it. 

But what worked on a rat might not work on a man, and there was no way to be entirely sure of the dose. He could calculate and recalculate, but there was always a chance that he could be wrong, and there was no way to test it on anyone else, lest it actually work.

It was do or die, literally. Succeed or die trying.

The trouble was that there was a very real possibility that he might do just that.

So he held off, letting the days slip by, crippled with indecision because if he didn't do it he would keep getting older, but if he did, and he failed... the best-case scenario was that it simply did nothing. The worst was that he robbed them of whatever time they might have had left together. 

He thought about finding an apprentice, someone he could train in his techniques, someone who, if he did fail in his attempt, could bring him back. After all, Brona's condition showed no signs of deterioration. She seemed to have a perfectly good life. But it might not work, especially if it was someone else doing it, someone without his experience and expertise. And what if he came back not like her, but like the first, or like Proteus in between, whose potential had never been realized, and whose previous intellectual capacities were unknown? 

Could he live a life like that? Would he even know what he was missing? 

Would Dorian want him if he was anyone other than himself, exactly as he was now?

In the end he dismissed the idea; even if he could find someone he trusted enough to share those secrets with, it would take too long to train him to the point where he actually trusted him with that much responsibility, and then what did he do with him after? It wasn't as if he wanted to _keep_ an apprentice. 

No, he had one shot to get it right, and if he failed, that was the end. 

But as his twenty-seventh birthday approached, his sense of urgency increased, and finally he decided that it had to be done. Whatever the outcome, he had to try. He made the decision that he would do it the night before, so that if it worked, his birthday would be his birthday again, and something worth celebrating, at least until he got bored of counting the years.

He found Mina first. They had a sort of uneasy truce, or at least he did, because they both cared a great deal for Dorian, but each for their own reasons, and so they had to co-exist. Victor couldn't quite get past the fact that Mina was not human, though, that she was a predator who routinely fed on the person he loved above all others, and that even though they had found his limits, found what he was able to heal without any ill effect, and she had never violated it, he was acutely aware that there was always a chance that she might.

Never mind that the feeding seemed to be part of their bedplay, and although they were careful to keep concealed from Victor the worst of what was inflicted on Dorian, he knew that pain was part of the fun that they had, and it bothered him. It was none of his business and he said nothing, but it bothered him nonetheless.

She looked at him curiously as he approached (which he didn't do often), her gaze unsettling in its fixedness. "Are you quite all right, Doctor?" she asked.

"Yes," he lied. "I'm fine." He stopped with several yards still between them. Why take chances now? 

"Was there something you needed, then? Were you looking for Vanessa?"

"Yes," he said, then, "No. I was looking for you. I'll find her after."

She tipped her head just slightly, waiting for him to elaborate, and he found that his mouth was dry, the words he wanted - _needed_ \- to say caught in his throat. He closed his mouth when no sound came out; he didn't want to look like a fool, standing there gawping.

"Are you quite sure you're all right?"

No. No, he wasn't sure at all. "I will be," he said. "I hope I will be. Tonight."

"Your experiments?"

He nodded. It was general knowledge, by now, what he was working on. It had become impossible to hide his melancholy at the worst of the setbacks, and his joy at the successes, although he was more subdued about the latter than the former. If he hadn't told them specifically what he was trying to achieve, they had more than enough information to form a hypothesis.

"Is there some role that you need me to play?" she asked. She had to be aware that she was the least likely choice.

"Only if I fail," he said. "Then... I only wanted to ask..." The words choked him, but he had to force them out. "If I fail, I don't know how he'll be. I don't know what he'll do. I just... wanted to ask... be... not gentle, I know he'll not want that, but... careful? with him. If you can."

"I always am," Mina said. 

Victor hesitated, then nodded, because what else could he do? There was nothing more to say then, so he turned and left, looking for Vanessa this time, although he had less idea what he wanted to say to her. It didn't seem appropriate, however necessary, to ask her to make sure that her lover not overindulge him in the darker things that he might ask for. 

In the end, he said very little when he found her. She just looked at him, her eyes raking up and down, and he didn't know what she saw, but apparently it told her everything she needed to know. "Let's not get maudlin, Doctor," she said. "It doesn't suit you."

"I..."

"I know, and I have faith in you. You'll have done the calculations a hundred times, and they come out the same each time. You're as sure as anyone ever could be. Whatever you fear... it's only a remote possibility. Let yourself have hope."

All he said, all he could think of to say, was, "Thank you."

She nodded, clearly a dismissal, and he moved on. 

Ethan and Brona were together; it was rare to find them apart if they were both at home. "You're looking grim," Brona said. "More than usual."

"I just came to say..." Goodbye? Had he come to say goodbye? He supposed he had. But as Vanessa had said, he had to hope that it wouldn't be, and if he'd said his goodbyes and they turned out not to be after all... Well, at least he'd said them, he supposed. In case. Any awkwardness, he hoped, would be overridden by happiness at his success. 

"I just came to say that you have been my greatest success, and if you are the monument I leave behind, then at least I will know that I've done some good in the world. I wish you – both of you – a long life and happiness, and..."

"You planning on going somewhere, Doctor F?" Ethan asked. 

"No," Victor said. "But there's a chance that I will whether I plan on it or not."

"There's a chance of that for all of us, every day," Ethan pointed out. 

"But more of a chance for me, especially today. Tonight."

"Does Dorian know?"

"Not yet."

"You going to tell him?"

Victor nodded. "I can't not."

"You'll be fine, Doc," Ethan said, and pulled him into a hug that half-suffocated Victor, but he didn't try to escape. It was a comfort, really, and when Ethan let go Victor ducked his head so they wouldn't see the tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes. 

"We'll see you tomorrow," Ethan said as he left. 

He couldn't help wondering if Ethan really felt that level of confidence in his abilities, or if he feigned it for Victor's benefit. On the one hand, Ethan had seen the results of his last experiment, and was reaping the benefit of that still. On the other...

He didn't know what was on the other. 

He skipped dinner, sure that if he ate he would be sick. Instead he shut himself in his room, staring at the needle that he'd put aside some time ago, uncertain what effect a narcotic addiction would have on the process, and the bottle beside it that was either the key to eternal life or the end of it.

He thought again, as he had several times before, of doing it on his own, of locking the door and barring anyone – by which he meant Dorian – from being able to get to him until it was over. But he couldn't do it. Not to Dorian, and not to himself. It wouldn't be fair to let the man he loved find him dead the next morning, without having even had the chance to say any last words he might have had. 

And if Victor was being honest, he was terrified of going through it alone.

A knock on his door came somewhat later than he'd expected, and he wondered what, if anything, the others had said to Dorian at dinner about Victor's plans. He got up and opened it, stepping out of the way so that Dorian could enter. "I thought you might be in your lab," he said, "too busy for dinner." He held out a small plate with a piece of cake. "I thought even if you weren't hungry, you might be interested in this."

It was Battenberg cake, Victor's favorite, and he felt a lump form in his throat at the sight of it, and the man who held it, and the possibility that after tonight... He took the plate from Dorian and set it on the small table in his room where they ate breakfast on the days when they actually roused themselves out of bed to eat instead of taking it while still curled up under the blankets, and threw himself into the other man's arms.

"Shh, love," Dorian whispered, his lips brushing Victor's hair. "Shh, it's all right."

But it wasn't, was it? It might be, but then it might not, and he'd never really contemplated his last night on earth before, and here it potentially was, and he was not prepared. He wasn't sure anyone ever truly was, but how could he take a chance on losing this sooner than he absolutely had to?

But Ethan was right. There was a chance that every day, every moment, could be his last. At least this way he got to shape it to something that he hoped would be a comfort to Dorian in all the moments that followed.

Dorian didn't say anything, just held him with one arm around him and the opposite hand cradling the back of his skull, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, waiting for the fit of emotion to pass. He was used to his lover's stormy nature, and had long since learned that asking what was wrong would only elicit anger or retreat, and that if he really wanted to know, all he had to do was wait and eventually Victor would tell him.

Eventually, he did. He lifted his head from Dorian's shoulder, his eyes damp and red-rimmed, his voice thick. "I've done it," he said. "I think I've done it. But I can't be sure."

"Done...?" But Dorian realized what he was saying before the question was even wholly formed, and his eyes went wide. Victor could feel the sudden tension in him, but he couldn't tell if it was excitement or fear. Likely a mixture of both, or perhaps something else entirely. "Have you...?"

"Not yet." Victor nodded toward the top of the dresser where a vial and a syringe sat. "I was going to, but then..." He looked up at Dorian. "I wanted you here. In case."

"In case of what?" Dorian asked.

Victor wondered if he was being deliberately dense, or if it really hadn't occurred to him that Victor might fail. Perhaps he only needed to hear the words to make them a reality. "In case it doesn't work. In case it... does more harm than good." 

_In case it kills me._ But he couldn't make himself say it. Six years on, and so many words spoken between them, and so many moments shared where no words were needed, and he couldn't make himself say that he wanted Dorian here because if he died, he didn't want to die alone. If these were to be the last moments of his life, he wanted to spend them in Dorian's arms.

Dorian nodded, his lips pressed together, and Victor dug his fingers into the soft material of Dorian's jacket. "I'm here," Dorian said. "I'm here now."

"I know."

Victor looked up at him, and then pulled him down into a kiss, and there was hunger in it, passion and desperation in nearly equal measure, and what came after was somehow _more_ than anything that had passed between them in all their time together. Silent pleas passed between their bodies, and soft sounds of gratitude for everything that they were to each other. 

And there was hope in it, too, even as it felt like an act of saying goodbye. If it _was_ the last time... well, it didn't feel like they'd left anything unsaid. 

Victor got up and retrieved the syringe, filling it from the vial, each moment an act of muscle memory more than conscious thought. He hesitated, then climbed back into bed with Dorian let himself be pulled into his arms, eased back so that his spine pressed into Dorian's chest. 

He put the point of the needle against his arm, then stopped. "I don't know what's going to happen," he said softly. "It may make me sick. I may be in pain, and it may last minutes, or it may last hours. But I think... if I make it through the night..."

"I'll be here the entire time," Dorian said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Victor nodded, slid the needle into his vein. He depressed the plunger slowly, then set it aside and loosened the tourniquet around his arm. There was no flood of warmth through him like morphine. There wasn't anything at all at first, and he settled more comfortably against Dorian, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. 

It didn't last. It started as an itching, that turned to a burning, and soon it was as if his entire body was on fire even as he shook with chills. And then, blessedly, his mind seemed to shut down, and he ceased to be aware of anything at all.

When he woke at first it felt like any other morning. He was on his side, and Dorian was curled around his back, their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, his lover's arm draped over his side, his hand pressed over his heart. 

"How do you feel?" Dorian whispered, and Victor wondered if he'd slept at all.

"Better," Victor said. "I'm sorry if—"

"Don't be sorry," Dorian said. "You suffered more than I did."

But Victor wondered if he had, really. It would have been far harder for him to watch Dorian go through something so painful than it was for him to experience it himself. "I'm all right now."

"Better than all right, I hope," Dorian said, and Victor rolled over to face him. There was still worry in his eyes, and he wondered if it would be hours or days or decades that it lingered. 

He would find out. He'd made it through the night, so he let himself believe, really believe, for the first time that he would find out.

"Better than all right," Victor agreed. He placed his hand over Dorian's heart, and felt his lover do the same. The words he spoke next were a vow, "No more let Death divide what Love has brought together."

And the kiss they shared sealed it.


End file.
